Sunday, September 23, 2007

I see this truck almost 3 times a week. I am guessing it delivers some sort of meat provisions to one of the hotels that line 40th St and Bryant Park. Its always parked in the same spot and I always think the same thing when I see it.

NEBRASKALAND!?!????!!!!! Are you kidding me?Funny thing -- hardly anyone here can even tell you where Nebraska is! And yet, this company uses the name as a marketing ploy to make people believe their products are somehow better.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Tonight, Mike washed my roommates car. I had never met Mike before, but I am pretty sure that my roommate had talked to him a few times. The short end of the story goes that Mike is a guy from the block, tries to earn a few bucks here and there doing things for people. "This is my hustle," as he puts it in while spitting ice chips onto the street.

Mike was paid for washing the car and we were enjoying a drink on the stoop. He told us his story. Explained to us that he had been given 3 lives. His first life nearly ended in 1983, when he got shot, in the chest, 4 blocks from where we sat. He had been a number runner. One night he's walking, some dudes role up and before he realizes it, an encounter takes place, he is shot and laying on the ground. Wound up at the Harlem Hospital. (Specializing in babies and gun shot wounds, no lying). They saved his life.

Life number 2 was almost taken a few years later in upstate New York when, while crossing a street, Mike was hit by a car. He flew through the air, landed on his head and was cut from the top of his head to his jaw. Once again, doctors put him back together, but Mike couldn't remember who he was. After they ran through some names, he remembered. They wanted to take him home. He didn't know where home was. So he got in a cab and drove to the city to see if something jogged his memory. As they drove, he remembered... "I live in Harlem. Yeah, that's it. I live in Harlem."

Crazy story right? He could have been making the whole thing up. Who know's? Point is, I couldn't write something that good. Something would have told me it was too much. That couldn't have all happened to one person. But maybe it did... Maybe it happened to Mike from the block.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

We set out, somewhere -- across the city, a few train transfers and a long walk away -- to find a man. He is a man that waits, Or maybe he doesn't. This day, we would find out. We set off in search of Houdini's Grave.

Ridgewood, Queens. Off the train we walked and cut into a cemetery just before dusk and closing time. We started in a Jewish cemetery, maybe it was called Greenwood. Then we hopped a wall into a Christian cemetery and after about a half hour we got picked up by the grounds keeper and told that we had to leave. The cemetery was closed. Alright, alright, but I had to know -- "had we even been close?"

The guy's response? "Naw. That's on Cypress. Up the hill, left, and then down 'Snakes Hill'." We were in the wrong cemetery, by a long way. We decided to continue walking, hoping that somebody would let us in, even though every other cemetery (and there were a lot) was closed.

Hate to sound like a Goonie here, but I didn't come this far to give up.

Just when it seemed like all hope was lost -- We Found It! Mecpelah CemeteryThe gates stood wide open. The building was empty. Windows broken, doors boarded up. It was pretty obvious that no one had used this place in a while.

But.. just inside the gate, there it was... the Houdini family plot.

And here is the man we came to see. Harry Houdini. The grave was simple. It only bore his last name and the name of his wife. There were a lot of trinkets, notes, playing cards, coins and other items placed around the stone. I left my own.

As we stood there, I had to wonder, after all the escapes he made in his career, "was he really there? Who knows? Maybe the greatest trick of his life was escaping death and convincing the world he was gone.

Every year, people come on the anniversary of his death, Halloween to hold seances to raise the great magician from the dead. Long live the King!

Sunday, September 2, 2007

(OK, so let me stop, and say this -- I realize that I have posted quite a few times about the Yankees recently. I'm sorry. The last thing I want to do is change this blog into an every day rambling about my feelings for a certain team that plays in the Bronx).

However, I had the opportunity to attend another game this weekend, my second since moving here, after scoring some great seats for next to nothing. Here was the view, right behind home plate> Turns out the Yankees didn't have it and they ended up dropping the game to Tampa Bay. Petite was shaky after the 5th and then it all fell apart. I don't see how you sweep the Sox and then choke on frickin Tampa Bay. Anyway... I digress.

To the point, my religious experience. My awakening. It happened ... in the bottom of the 6th! I was sitting in my seat, trying to cheer the Yankees into a rally and suddenly, it appeared, clear as day. Up there, in the clouds... I see something...